Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca? (33 page)

I was nearly speechless but managed to squeak something out.

"What kind of wagon?"

"Who knows. Some old American gas hog."

"What happened then?"

"The old fart stops right on the tracks. I think he stalled the damn
thing. I thought the train was going to hit him. Then, at the last second, he
gets it going and hustles over the tracks right in front of the train."

"Then?"

"That's it. It was a long train. By the time it passed, the truck was
long gone." She was on the verge of tears.

"You have no idea which way it went from here?"

"How was I supposed to see through a train?" She channeled her
sorrow into anger, but her eyes gave her away. "If the truck left a vapor
trail like that damn old car, I would have known where it went too. It's all my
fault."

"You know where the car went?"

"Sure. The thing was smoking so bad, it was like he was skywriting. I
could see the smoke running all along the top of the train."

She pointed off to the north.

"The car turned right?"

"Who cares about the stupid car? It's the - " She picked up on my
tone.

"Was . . . was that your friend in the car?"

"Yes."

"Oh . . . I‘m sorry for calling him a bum."

"He was an old fart. Don't worry about it. He wouldn't have
minded."

"He took the first right."

We followed in his tracks, turning right up a wide unlit industrial access
road. There were no street markers. We were about a mile from where Buddy had
been found. Wall-to-wall heavy industry. Big fences, booms, cranes,
smokestacks, and dispersion towers backlit by the sky. I started out slowly,
looking for company signs to identify the buildings we were passing. No luck.

Three quarters of a mile down, we came to a dead end, as the road ran
directly into a butte overlooking Commencement Bay.

"What now?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"No idea," she shrugged. "I went straight back at the tracks.
It was a bigger road."

I nosed the truck into a little turnout. In order to get the tailgate out of
the street, I had to lean the front bumper of the truck on the chain-link
fence. The fence groaned and buckled inward, snapping a couple of the white
painted slats that ran through the links. We settled to a stop.

I shut down and pocketed the keys.

"Let's walk around a little. See if maybe we can't get an idea of what
some of these businesses are." Caroline was game.

We covered a good half mile on both sides of the street, up and back to the
truck, without seeing a single identifying sign. Halfway up the first leg, we
were silhouetted by the headlights of an oncoming car, which started up the
street toward us, changed its mind, and backed out to the main road.

The momentary flash of headlights served only to heighten the darkness after
they were withdrawn. We stood still, waiting for our pupils to dilate.

Huge piles of rough-sawn boards identified one of the yards as a wholesale
lumber dealer. The rest, it was hard to tell. Drums of various sorts were
scattered about. I needed light.

The frosted pebbles of the road shoulder somehow reflected the meager light
and crunched under our feet as we meandered back toward the camper.

"So, what do you care about, Leo?"

"I care about lots of stuff." I was hoping this would suffice. No
go.

"Like what?"

"Well, you know," I stammered, "that's why I do what I do. I
care about the people I work for and the problems they've got."

"You're a detective." It was a statement.

"A private investigator," I corrected, glancing at her sideways.

"Ms. Kennedy told me. She didn't want me to think you worked for my
grandfather, you know, like Frankie."

I made a mental note to thank Kennedy."

"People come to you with problems?"

"Only after they've tried everything else."

"Kind of like Ms. Kennedy."

"You could say that. She sure as hell wouldn't like the idea, but I
suppose we do have a lot in common. We're both sort of professional busybodies.
We both spend our time dealing with other people's problems."

"You like that?"

"It beats dealing with my own."

"Be serious."

"I am being serious."

We climbed back in the truck. I figured to come back in the morning when I
could see better and people would be around so I could ask directions. I threw
it in reverse and started back into the road.

My original angle of entry had been too steep. I wasn't going to be able to
turn all the way around, so, after backing partway out I crimped the wheel hard
and nosed back into the turnout. I mashed the brakes and stared straight ahead.

There it was, right in front of my face. I'd parked on top of it. Two feet
off the ground, a two-foot circle of engine sludge and burned oil was etched
onto the white slats of the fence. Just like the one the Buick had left on
Arnie's fence the day I'd first fired it up.

I sat and stared at the circle.

"What is it, Leo?"

"The Buick station wagon made that mark." I pointed at the fence.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Why would he park here?"

"Because Buddy thought you knew where you were going. He could tell you
were following the truck. He figured you'd show up here."

"Here? Why?"

"Because this is where the truck went."

"Here?"

"No. Behind us. He was backed in so he could see."

I shut down the truck and stepped back out into the night. Across the
street, a double pair of heavily chained gates appeared to be the sole entrance
into an immense quadrangle of interlocking corrugated metal shops and
warehouses covering the better part of ten acres. Dim lights glowed in a small
central brick building. Probably the office. Acres of cement parking lots stood
empty.

Caroline appeared at my side. "Is that it?"

I unlocked the camper and fished the nine-millimeter out from under the seat
cushion. I checked the load. Full. No sense in taking the automatic. I'd already
proved I couldn't hit anything with it. I turned to Caroline.

"I don't suppose telling you to stay here would do any good."

"What do you think?" she grinned.

"I think you and I started all this, and maybe we ought to finish
it."

For Caroline, the gate was easy. We merely pulled on one side until the
chain was tight, and she slid in between the halves. For me it was another
matter. I had to strip down to my T-shirt before I could wiggle and scrape my
way through. The pivoting latch mechanism, directly opposite my chest, caught
in my shirt, gouging a trail of bloody scratches across my body as I held my
breath and forced my way inside.

I pulled the girl to the dark-shadowed side of the nearest building while I
re-dressed and worked on what to do next. Any doubts I'd worked up flew away
when I noticed the faded stenciling on the corrugated metal above Caroline's
head. The little logo was all I needed. I checked anyway.

"What's that say above your head?"

She stepped back from the wall and squinted at the peeling letters.

"Mobils Reclamation, I think. Something like that."

"Mobius," I said. "Mobius Reclamation."

"A picture that looks like a bent circle."

"It's a Mobius strip," I said.

Two overhead lights at the north end of the lot cast a wavering glow over
the parking area. I looked the other way, down the length of the building. As
the distance from the lights increased, the shadows became deeper, the building
less distinct. A hundred feet away, the south side of the fence surrounding the
lot had been totally swallowed up by the gloom. I reached for Caroline's hand.
She pulled it back.

"Can you hear it?" she said.

I listened. Somewhere within the complex an engine was running. Then the
unmistakable sound of a car door slamming. Faint voices, followed by the
rumbling rollers of an overhead door. then silence again.

"Let's go. Stay right up against the buildings," I whispered,
taking her hand and leading her toward the back of the building, away from the
lights and the sounds. The jungle of weeds and tall grasses that grew along the
edges of the building served to hide a lethal array of cans, bottles, defunct
machine parts, and mangled pallets that had, over the years, inexorably
gravitated their way toward this single unpaved narrow strip. It was slow
going, as we tediously picked our way along the wall, testing our footfalls
before committing our entire weight. Couldn't risk breaking an ankle. Twice, my
probing front foot stepped off into nothing. Both times we had to risk the
flashlight in order to avoid hidden drainage pits.

Forty feet shy of the far end, my concentration welded to the blackness
ahead, I stepped on something round, skidded, and fell heavily into the side of
the building. The flimsy metal gonged into the night as a wave of motion
rattled its way through the decrepit building. We stood still, listening.

Somewhere behind us another engine started. Caroline tensed.

"Don't panic," I whispered. "It doesn't mean they heard
us."

"What us?"

We stood with out backs to the building, staring back the way we'd come. The
unmistakable jittery lights of a motor vehicle suddenly lit up the gate area,
bouncing, getting progressively brighter as they drew nearer.

"Now panic," I said through my teeth. I grabbed the girl by the
sweater and propelled her around the side of the building. We rounded the
corner in a sprint and fell heavily into a four-foot trench.

Fighting for breath, I scrambled up and peeked my head back around the side.
A green crew-cab pickup truck, identical to those Daniel and I had encountered
at the dump site, hesitated at the gate and then turned right toward us, moving
slowly up the wall, zigzagging, using its high beams to sweep the area. I
jerked my head back in.

"Quick," I said.

We climbed out and stumbled wildly across the overgrown, furrowed field at
the back of the building toward a pile of rusting pipe that rested diagonally
in the clearing, its haphazard outline skeletal against the sky. I pulled
Caroline down behind the pile just as the driver angled his lights around the
corner.

The ditch prevented him from driving around the back. I unconsciously held
my breath. The driver got out. I pushed Caroline to the ground and eyeballed
out through a narrow chink between two lengths of culvert pipe.

The driver held his right hand down along his leg as he hopped the ditch and
started across the field. The lights of the truck lit up the fence to our
right. I was confident that he'd have to get right on top of us before he could
make us out. Not only was it dark, but the unstructured pile of pipe and
twisted metal would make it nearly impossible to pick us out. Caroline started
to raise her head. I gently pushed it back down. For once, she stayed put. I
waited.

He came on, not taking any chances. Cautiously, squinting and swiveling his
eyes over the dim overgrown ground. Two steps and listen. Two steps and squint.
Backlit by the truck lights, his wispy hair gave him an almost angelic
appearance.

Ten yards short of the pile, he stopped. Decisions, decisions. What side of
the pile to come around. The left side, nearest the fence, offered more light,
but the pile would be right in his lap, negating the advantage of the gun. The
right side, while dark as hell, offered greater distance from possible attack.
While he took his time, weighing the alternatives, I pulled the nine-millimeter
out from my pocket. Shooting him would just about guarantee that we'd have to
fight our way out of here. I stuck the gun back in my belt.

As I'd hoped, he chose the right. On all fours, I went left, keeping the
bulk of the pile always between us. As he sidestepped around the far end of the
pile, his gun now held forward with both hands, I skittered around the other
end and then up the long side of the pile. I was parallel with him now. He
stayed cautious, taking it one step at a time, until he spotted Caroline
facedown in the grass. I don't know what he'd expected, but she wasn't it. I
saw his shoulders relax. He stepped forward quickly. I followed suit.

"You - you there - get up," he said, gesturing with a snub-nosed
thirty-eight. Apparently, she didn't budge. He stepped closer. I made my move.

He must have heard the scrape as I dragged the four-foot length of rusted
pipe from the pile. It cost him an arm. He had half-pivoted back in my
direction, trying to raise his free arm, when I swung the pipe with both hands.
The effort lifted my feet completely off the ground. The whistling pipe
collapsed his upraised arm with a sickening snap before plowing downward into
his forehead. My arms vibrated from the hollow contact.

He went down on his back, one leg splayed out at an odd, impossible angle. I
watched as his hand relaxed around the revolver. Blood quickly welled up to
fill the deep indentation that ran down his forehead. His yellowed teeth were
locked in a last ghastly smile. It was the guy who had fired on us at the dump
site. He wouldn't be needing the arm.

Caroline was sitting up, staring at me. I bent and took her arm.

"Let's go," I whispered.

She shook her head violently and didn't move.

"Let's go," I repeated urgently. "The party's over. We need
to get out of here. They'll be looking for this guy in a minute."

From behind me, a voice split the air.

"No, pilgrim. That's where you wrong. This here party's just
startin'."

A sticky valve in the idling truck engine ticked rhythmically into the
chilled silence. I started to look over my shoulder. He stopped me.

"Hands on top of your head, motherfucker."

I released Caroline's arm and straightened up, my back still to him. If I'd
been alone I might have taken my chances with diving over the pile. As it was,
even if I made it, he still had Caroline sitting in his line of fire. I slowly
raised my hands. Caroline made small slurping noises.